Midsummer Magic
by Lasrevinu
Summary: GSR and old people.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own CSI.

**Rating:** Adult

**Spoilers:** Up to Grave Danger

**Summary: **GSR and old people.

**Author's Note:** Many thanks go to Banani for checking this beast over. And to SBT and Birthday Girl! Gracias!

**Midsummer Magic**

The crowd leaned forward in palpable anticipation. One by one, he tugged on his white gloves at the wrist, smoothing any visible creases in the fabric. His hands were steady.

"And now," he began as he walked stage right and then down the stairs to the audience, "for my final act…"

He stopped at one of the tables, his cold blue eyes twinkling for a mere moment as he plucked a rose from the bud vase -- jostling the nearby votive candle just a bit -- and handed it to the lady watching him in awe.

"…I shall disappear."

The twinkle was gone from his eyes as he swept his silky black cape over his lean, lanky frame and vanished.

Forever.

* * *

For all their similarities in disposition, the pair of scientists stepped into the Mesa Grande theater with vastly different attitudes. The tiny playhouse floor was dotted with intimate tables for two, and Sara suspected that in the right light with the right amount of drinks running through one's system, the little place could be almost charming. 

But with the house lights on, she remained unimpressed. The old, patterned wallpaper was stained with decades of cigarette smoke, the tiles underfoot were cracked, the grout dirty from years of spilled drinks and pedestrian traffic. The stage was small and framed by moth-eaten velvet curtains that had most definitely seen better days -- probably during the Truman administration, she guessed.

She turned to observe Grissom, who was grinning at his surroundings.

"This is a crime scene, you know," she said sourly, dislodging the sunglasses that were perched at the top of her head and settling them back down on her nose to combat the glare of the theater's lights.

"You have no sense of Las Vegas history," he told her, his spirits not at all dampened by her attitude. "The Mesa Grande is one of the oldest stages in this city. Houdini played here. All the vaudeville greats…" Grissom shook his head in amazement as he pictured the famous acts that had once graced the stage in front of them.

"Well, it's been a while since I took Spanish, but doesn't 'mesa grande' mean--"

"Big table? Yeah," he answered. "The theater used to be called The Royale, but back in the forties when the mob started slowly picking up territory in Vegas, it was a favorite hangout for one of the bosses: Fat Tony. Legend has it he was so big that the tables on the floor couldn't…accommodate him," Grissom explained, "so they brought in one giant table and put it in the corner, where Fat Tony used to like to sit. It's over there." He pointed to the far right and Sara turned to get a look at it the fabled table which was nestled in its own little cove, away from the rest of the audience. "Back in the days of the Rat Pack when Vegas was still Vegas, a list of who's who sat there and watched people like Sinatra perform. They all asked to be seated at the big table."

"Hence the name."

"Exactly."

"Well," Sara sighed, "however grande the mesa may be, I think it's safe to assume the theater has seen better days. I've never even heard of this guy we're looking for."

"Mandrake the Magician? Me either. But I've been out of the magic loop for a while," he added absentmindedly as he set down his field kit. "Where's Brass? He's supposed to be here to brief us. I've only got the bare minimum on info for this case."

"Perhaps I can help."

"Who said that?" Grissom barked, his demeanor suddenly sapped of merriment.

A small, hunched figure emerged from the shadows near the stage. "I'm Herman Pinchbeck. I've known Elvin Mandrake for almost fifty years." Pinchbeck offered his hand to Grissom and then Sara, and both scientists remained quiet as they absorbed the appearance of the old man. He was bent forward, as if his spine couldn't quite straighten all the way. He wore a white and blue checkered short-sleeve shirt and light blue trousers, both articles of clothing crisp and perfectly pressed, as if they were immune from the June heat. A black eye patch covered his left socket while his remaining right eye was a milky sort of blue. A tuft of white hair -- which he smoothed back to no avail with his left hand -- completed the picture.

"How did you get in here?" Grissom finally asked, his tone more gentle than it had been moments earlier.

"The key."

Sara arched a brow. "You have the key?"

"I've been assisting Elvin behind the scenes with his shows for months."

"And you were with him during his last show?"

"No," the man said, shaking his head and looking from scientist to scientist. "I mean, I was here. I was watching. Elvin told me to sit at the big table, to enjoy the show like everyone else for once. He said he'd do all the behind-the-scenes stuff himself."

"So, you saw everything?" Sara asked, tilting her head to the side.

Pinchbeck shrugged. "As best as I could, all things considered," he said, gesturing to his eye patch.

Grissom furrowed his brows. "Was that last trick -- the one where he vanishes without a trace -- was that part of the act?"

"No. Not on the floor, anyway. There's a trapped door on the stage. The show ends in a puff of smoke. Elvin would disappear and then reappear a few seconds later at the big table. It was his greatest trick. Or so I thought," Pinchbeck explained.

Sara tracked her gaze from the stage to the big table. "Going from underneath the stage all the way to the big table in a few seconds -- that's quite a feat."

Pinchbeck shook his head. "It's easier than you think. Right as he fell through the trapped door, Elvin would lift his arms up, releasing two doves he hid in his vest. The audience would be clapping and covering up their drinks with their hands as the birds flew around the room. And then boom. He was sipping a drink at the big table before they knew it."

"Ah, misdirection."

The old man nodded at Grissom. "The trick in and of itself is not complicated. The beauty is in the simplicity. At that point in the night, everyone is so ready to believe anything you put in front of them, and half of them are juiced. They go crazy every time."

Grissom seemed to consider what Pinchbeck was saying while Sara sighed impatiently. "So why did he do things differently this last time?"

"No idea. Like I said, I was hands-off during the whole show."

The emergency exit burst open and actual sunlight warred with the artificial glare of the lights overhead. Brass ambled in with a sweaty deputy in tow.

"Where have you been?"

"Front door won't open. Carson had to crowbar the back exit."

Grissom made a face. "We got in fine."

Pinchbeck nodded. "Me, too. Sometimes the door sticks. What can I say? The building is old."

Brass walked up to the elderly man. "You're Herman Pinchbeck? Mandrake the Magician's assistant?"

Pinchbeck nodded.

"Can I ask you why you waited twelve hours to call the police to investigate Mandrake the Magician, a.k.a. Elvin Mandrake's disappearance?"

"At first I thought he had just…altered his trick. You know, changed some things around without telling me. It didn't occur to me to do anything about it until I tried to reach him this morning. I went to his apartment -- nothing. His medication -- Elvin takes quite a few drugs for his heart -- was right there on his kitchen counter, the bottles full. That's when I got worried."

Brass exhaled loudly. "We're going to need to take your statement and we're going to need a list of the audience members," he said.

"The front of the house will be able to provide the names of the people who paid with their credit cards," Pinchbeck explained.

Grissom regarded Brass. "We'll start looking around." He then nodded at Sara and they headed for the stage. The CSIs quietly poked around, examining the trapped door for several minutes, before heading backstage. Apart from a cage of doves, the area was spotless and empty.

"Where is all the stuff?" Sara asked, looking around.

"It's possible that Mandrake's supplies are in his dressing room. Or maybe he just didn't use a lot of doodads in his show."

"Well, he used doves." She frowned at the birds in the cage. "They must've spent hours cooped up in his vest, waiting to fly free. Animal cruelty."

"Eh, not so much. The typical small dove can be compressed to the size of a ping pong ball quite easily. They have a very flexible bone structure."

"Well, I'm quite flexible myself," Sara said under her breath as she bent down to get a better look at the doves. "Doesn't mean I want to spent my time all contorted and under someone's armpit." As Grissom raised his brows at her remark, she stood up straight. "I'm going to go see what the view is like from the big table."

He watched her go, trying his best keep his mind from wandering into dangerous places where 'Sara' and 'flexible' were used in the same sentence.

* * *

Sara honed in on the famous spot in the club and stood back, taking in the sight for a moment. It resembled an oversized corner booth. The giant marble tabletop sat heavy on its pedestal. She took a few steps closer and set her kit down on the floor. It really was a big table. Taking a deep breath, Sara slid onto the curved leather bench seat and situated herself right in the middle, where the view of the stage was optimal. She closed one eye and tried to imagine what Pinchbeck saw the night Mandrake disappeared. Assuming he sat where she sat and that his vision was as good as hers -- and assuming he wasn't three sheets to the wind -- Pinchbeck had a decent line of sight to the spot where the magician dematerialized. But there were a lot more tables with far better views. 

She sighed. They'd need the credit card list before they could get a better idea of what happened.

Drumming her fingertips on the marble, Sara sat back against the cushiony leather and let her muscles relax for a moment. She was well into her second shift, as was Grissom. They had just finished up collecting evidence in a museum heist when the day shift supervisor, claiming he was swamped, passed off the case of the missing magician. Sara's feet ached. She had walked the corridors of the museum for hours, searching for trace evidence of any kind left by the burglars. Her tired eyes began to drift closed.

"Sleeping on the job?"

Sara stifled a yelp and sat up straight. Grissom glided into the booth and smiled. "I found Mandrake's route."

"Excuse me?"

"The route he used to get to the big table after falling through the trapped door. He climbed a short flight of stairs that led to the area behind the bar," Grissom explained, nodding to the long, mahogany expanse that was dotted with leather stools. "There's a small door that takes you right behind the bar. All Mandrake had to do was slip the couple of feet from the bar to where I'm sitting now." He smiled, satisfied with himself.

"Okay. But Mandrake didn't use that route the night he vanished," Sara pointed out. "He didn't end up here. He didn't end up anywhere."

Grissom's face fell. "You ruined my fun."

She laughed. "I'm sorry. I'm just…not enthused at all by this. Do you get the feeling this is all a PR stunt to create some sort of buzz? I mean, the guy wasn't taken at gunpoint. He disappeared, supposedly, of his own volition. We may be looking for someone who doesn't want to be found."

He nodded. "I considered that. But we're not here to judge why Mandrake disappeared. We're here to tell how."

"Well, good luck with that. I'm not magically inclined. I can't even do the coin behind the ear trick."

"You mean this?" he asked, lifting his hand to the side of her head and grazing her ear momentarily before producing a shiny quarter in his palm.

Sara's ear tingled from his touch, but she did her best to appear calm and unaffected. "I think we should call off the search and you should just replace Mandrake the Magician," she told him. "You're obviously ready for the stage."

"Very funny."

She smiled at him. It had been a long while since she teased Grissom. Their friendship had been so strained during the past few years. Though Sara first regretted telling him about her family history, she could see how the knowledge had affected his interaction with her: he was more gentle, more sweet. He didn't tiptoe around her anymore, as if she were a bomb ready to go off.

"Is Brass almost done?" she asked, nodding to the spot where the detective was talking with the old man.

"I think so." Grissom let his eyes wander over the room. "Man, they pack a lot of little tables into a small space. Fire hazard."

"I've seen worse." She sat down a little lower in her seat and stared ahead. "I've worked worse."

He turned his head, intrigued. "You used to be a waitress?"

"A long time ago."

"Did you like it?"

She sighed. "It paid the bills." He made a face. "What?"

"I just can't picture you…waiting on people." They sat quietly for a few moments before he broke the silence with a question: "You want to split for the day or you want to check out Mandrake's apartment?"

"I just drank a large coffee. I'm not sleeping anytime soon."

* * *

Elvin Mandrake's apartment was as stark as the Mesa Grande's backstage. 

"How long has he lived here?"

Grissom set down his kit. "Landlord said six months."

"Just one month longer than he was doing his act at the theater. He must've been hard up for cash. This place is sparse," she said. "Like a college dorm before the semester starts."

They searched the room and found nothing out of the ordinary: a few clean outfits hung in the closet, the bed was made, the carpet was clean.

"His fridge is empty," Grissom noted.

Sara sighed, picking up the prescription bottles resting on the tiny kitchenette counter and bagging them. "He wasn't planning to come back. We're looking for a magician that doesn't want to be found. Pretty fruitless."

He knew she was right, but said nothing. Grissom didn't want to sign off on the case just yet. With patience, he combed every inch of the studio apartment that Sara wasn't working on. Stopping at the twin bed snug in the corner of the room, his knees coming up against the steel frame, Grissom turned to look at her. She was hunched down on the floor, shining her flashlight into the cupboards under the sink. Even when felt the mission was futile, she soldiered on.

He loved her for that.

Grissom looked back at the small bed, imagining what Mandrake must've felt as he crawled under the worn gray covers every night after receiving thunderous applause at the Mesa Grande. Seventy-four years on Earth and all he had to show for it was a bare apartment and a Missing Persons file. It frightened Grissom. He wasn't so far away from seventy-four. He wasn't so far away from Elvin Mandrake that he couldn't picture himself -- a little more gray, a little more withered -- climbing into that small bed with nothing but the wall to stare at, with nothing but a thin blanket for warmth. A chill ran up Grissom's spine.

"See something?" He jumped, whipping his head in Sara's direction as she walked up behind him. "Sorry," she said sheepishly.

Grissom could feel his pulse beat in his ears. "It's okay."

"Is there something interesting with the bed?"

"I, uh…don't know."

Sara tilted her head to the side. "Hmm…"

"What is it?"

"The nail."

"What nail?"

She leaned forward and pointed a gloved hand to the small nail in the wall that was just about in line with Mandrake's pillow, about a foot above the surface of the bed. "I think he hung a picture there. Right where his head would be, right where he could see it when he was laying down."

"It isn't here now."

"He must've taken it with him," she said, standing up straight. "You know, I looked at his medication. It's not just your run-of-the-mill cholesterol pills. Judging by the stuff he was taking, this guy was on the verge of heart failure. He can't just skip town without his medication."

Grissom frowned, taking the clear evidence bag from her.

"Grissom…maybe he was dying. Maybe he got diagnosed with something incurable and just…decided to go on his own terms, doing what he loved the most."

He sighed and checked his watch. "I'll call Brass and have him talk with the doctors who prescribed Mandrake the pills, though they might not be able to say much considering we don't have a body. Let's call it a day."

They packed up their stuff and headed to the car. Grissom smiled at Sara as she sat back in the passenger's seat and closed her eyes. "Caffeine wearing off?"

"Uh-huh."

"You want me to drop you off at your apartment now? I can log the evidence in myself."

"Oh," she said, sitting up and opening her eyes wide, "don't worry. I'm fine."

"I'll drop you off," he said. "There's no point in both of us missing out on any more sleep. I'll pick you up before shift."

"Are you sure?"

He smiled and started the car. Sara felt a little guilty, but she didn't have the energy to argue with him. If he wanted to be nice, she'd just let him be nice and enjoy it. Positive reinforcement and all.

They didn't speak until he stopped in front of her building. "Here we are."

She grabbed her bag and located her keys. "Thanks a lot, Grissom. I really appreciate it."

"Sweet dreams, Sara."

* * *

She hated wearing heels. As if she weren't tall enough. Sheesh. Still, a dress code was a dress code, and with the money she had been pulling in working from eight 'til three at the Mesa, it was worth a blister or two. She had a pair of comfortable flats in her purse for the walk home, anyway. 

Sara never regretted her move to Las Vegas. Sure, she wasn't holed up in a fancy hotel, sipping champagne and eating strawberries all day, but she had managed to carve out her own little spot in her new home town. She was renting a room from a sweet old lady who loved to bake and leave her confections on Sara's dresser with the hopes she'd fatten up a little bit.

"Men like a little meat on the bones," Miss Gertrude would say.

It wasn't that Sara didn't like to eat. It was just that she was always moving around so much, she burned the excess calories before they could pad her bottom.

But not anymore. Now, she planned on putting down roots. She wasn't going to run away anymore. She was going to stay where she was and let the donuts fill out her figure a bit.

Mesa Grande was part of that plan. She had finagled a job as a waitress there -- God knows she had enough experience at it -- and very quickly Mr. Pinchbeck took her off the early shift and let her work late nights where all the money was to be made. It was the late nights when the mobsters would stroll in with their whores and lackeys -- or girlfriends and business associates, as they liked to be called -- and spend the big dough.

Sara had never seen so much excess. The world was in the middle of a bloody war with the Nazis and Bugsy Siegel was in Las Vegas, Nevada, pouring a fifty dollar bottle of champagne in the high heel of a very expensive hooker at the big table.

Not that she worked the big table.

No, the busty blondes worked the big table. Sara was content to watch the insanity from afar while collecting decent tips from patrons who were there to do the same. The big table was all part of the show.

She sighed as she walked up to the Mesa Grande. It was still light out, despite the hour -- the very best part of a summer evening. Though she would've loved to stand outside in her flats and enjoy the sunset, Sara knew she had to slip into heels and get to work. Mr. Pinchbeck caught her arm on the way in.

"You're working the big table tonight."

"Excuse me?"

"Fat Tony is in from Chicago," Mr. Pinchbeck explained, smoothing his ruffled hair and straightening his vest. The other cocktail waitresses had whispered that he lost his left eye as a bystander in a mob brawl. The famous Fat Tony had persuaded the owners of the club to give him the managerial spot.

"But…I'm new," she pointed out. "Shouldn't one of the other waitresses--"

Mr. Pinchbeck looked her up and down with his good eye. "Fat Tony likes 'em skinny." With that, he plowed through the swinging doors and into the kitchen and disappeared.

Sara stood stock still and stared at the big table. She knew that the girls who worked it didn't have to cover any other tables and were guaranteed a giant tip from whomever parked their ass in the massive booth -- but still, she was wary. She wasn't a big table girl, and would have rather borne the calluses that came with walking back and forth in mile-high heels from the tiny tables to the bar than stand idly by and watch a mobster overindulge.

"I hear you're working the big table."

Sara turned to see Cathy, one of the cocktail waitresses who had started working at the Mesa Grande back when it was called The Royale. "Yeah."

"Hike up that skirt," she said, tugging Sara at the waistband. "You gotta show off those legs. And undo another button on that blouse."

"No," Sara said quickly, her hand moving to her throat, keeping her blouse buttoned up just where it was.

"The tips, girl," Cathy exclaimed. "You're working Fat Tony's table."

"So I hear," Sara said primly.

"He's gonna want to see a little skin."

"Then he'll have to get another waitress."

Cathy shook her head and went off to the bar to pick up an order. Sara took her place by the big table and waited for Fat Tony and his entourage.

Fat Tony didn't show up until 11:30 and his entourage consisted of one man in a cream-colored suit, complete with a matching fedora. Sara couldn't see the man's face as they walked towards the big table -- he was blocked by Fat Tony's massive frame. The latter looked her up and down and licked his thick lips hungrily. "What's your name, dear?" he asked, his Midwestern accent strong.

"Sara."

"It's nice to meet you, Sara," he said, oozing sleaze.

She refrained from rolling her eyes, but just barely.

"Get me a cigar, sweetheart. Cuban. I'm all out."

Sara nodded and then turned to the man in the cream fedora who had taken his seat. "Would you like one, sir?"

He met her eyes for the first time that night and Sara felt as if she had been struck by lighting: the club noises faded away and were replaced by a distant ringing as his cool, blue eyes bore into hers. "No, thank you."

It took a few moments for his words to register. She nodded and then scurried to the bar for a cigar. While she waited for Mr. Pinchbeck to retrieve a Cuban from Fat Tony's private stash, Sara pulled Cathy aside. "That man with Fat Tony -- who is he?"

"Who?"

"The man in the white hat," Sara said under her breath.

Cathy craned her neck to get a better view. "No idea."

She returned to the table and then proceeded to take their orders. "Gin and tonic. A big one," Fat Tony said. "What about you, Doc?"

"I'll have a club soda," the man said, meeting Sara's eyes once more. She felt a shiver go up her spine.

"That's a sissy drink," Fat Tony laughed. "Get him a gin and tonic, same as me."

Sara fetched their drinks, balancing them on a tray skillfully. "Gin and tonic," she said, placing the large glass in front of the mob boss. He grinned happily. "And one club soda." The man in the white hat took the drink from her.

"Club soda?" Fat Tony exclaimed, his eyes sharp and suddenly angry. He grabbed Sara's wrist tight. His grip was surprisingly strong. "I told you to get a gin and tonic! Where the fuck is Pinchbeck?"

"Mr. Petrosini," the man in the white hat said calmly but firmly, placing one tanned hand on Fat Tony's shoulder while the other covered the fist that was gripping Sara's wrist, "you know I shouldn't drink when I'm with you. I'm your doctor. I shouldn't be inebriated. This girl is just looking out for you, aren't you?" he asked, staring at Sara and willing her to nod.

"Oh…oh, yes. Yes, of course," she said, feeling tears spring to her eyes as pain shot through her arm.

"Now, why don't you let go of her?"

"Eh, okay, okay," Fat Tony said, releasing her and sitting back against the booth. The anger in his eyes was gone as quickly as it came.

Shaken, Sara pulled back her hand and cradled her wrist. She wouldn't have been surprised if that mob psycho had fractured it.

"Get me some ribs. I'm hungry."

"Your heart, Mr. Petrosini," the man in the white hat reminded, sounding very much like her high school guidance counselor.

"I'm in Vegas. This is vacation time for me. I'll eat the carrots when we're back in Chicago. Just let me have my ribs now."

Sara looked to the man in the white hat. "Very well. I'll have another club soda. Mine seems to have been lost in the fray."

She gasped when she noticed his drink was on its side, half in his lap. "Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry!" Sara ran for some towels and began to help the man blot up the mess while Fat Tony kept his eyes on Dean Martin as he belted out "That's Amore." She kneeled down in the booth, wiping up as much as she could while the man attended to the dampness in his lap. "I'm so sorry," she whispered again. "I really…I didn't mean…"

"It's not your fault," he told her, his voice low. He stopped what he was doing and took her injured wrist in his hands. Sara felt her heart stop. "Does it hurt?"

"A little," she whispered, her eyes darting at Fat Tony as he happily sang along with Martin, completely oblivious. Her cheeks had to be bright red by now.

The man in the white hat gently flexed and extended the joint, feeling around for anything abnormal. "It's going to be fine. Bruised, but fine." He let go.

"Thank you," she said softly, and finished wiping up the spill.

"Where are my ribs?"

The evening continued without another hitch. Fat Tony ate three plates of ribs and drank another couple of gin and tonics while Sara tried her best not to stare at the man in the white hat. He was a doctor, which meant he was educated. He seemed like a gentleman. He was polite, well-mannered. And gorgeous. Oh, so gorgeous, she thought to herself, hoping her face wasn't blushing. His hair that peeked out from underneath his fedora was a steely gray and complimented his eyes. His skin was tan and healthy-looking, not like the pasty faces of all of the doctors who had treated her in the past. He seemed entirely too perfect a specimen to be cavorting with the likes of Fat Tony. He should be in a hospital, dressed in a lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck, not sitting in a seedy booth with an even seedier man.

When the time came for Fat Tony to leave, he heaved himself out of his seat and got to his feet rather unsteadily. "Call the boys, Doc."

The boys happened to be Fat Tony's henchmen, who had spent the night outside of the club, waiting for Fat Tony to finish his evening. He pat her ass as he walked by her, and it took every ounce of willpower in Sara to keep from slapping his face. "Give her a good tip, boys," he said as he left the club. One of the beefy-necked henchmen handed her a hundred dollar bill before turning to go. Sara watched the party leave the room and sighed.

She had been right: she was not a big table girl.

Sara knew it was time to call it a night. The club was just about to close, and with her sole customer on his way out, there was no point in staying. After locating her purse, she slipped into her flats and prepared to leave the Mesa Grande with a hundred dollars in her pocket and a bracelet of bruises around her left wrist.

As she walked towards the exit, a hand snaked out and grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her into the shadows near the restrooms. "Don't go out there," the voice said quickly, before she could scream out for help. It was Fat Tony's doctor. It was the man in the white hat.

"Wuh…why?" she asked, breathlessly.

"I heard Fat Tony tell one of his minions to pick you up," the man in the white hat said. She could feel his warm breath on her face. "He liked you. I've seen him do this to girls before. This is dangerous. Believe me, you don't want to get on his bad side."

Sara blinked, her eyes beginning to adjust to the darkness just enough so she could make out his face. "I think I've seen enough of his bad side," she said, holding up her wrist.

"You don't know the half of it." His voice was bitter with disgust.

"But why do you work for him, then? Why are you his doctor?" she asked. "If you know he's terrible, why do you help him?"

"It's a long story. Now, is there another exit you can use -- one that's out of the way?"

"I…I guess I could leave from the kitchen."

"Good. Good," he said, his eyes searching her face. "I'll try to distract them. Hurry home, Sara."

It was the first time he had called her by her name. She was almost surprised he remembered it; Fat Tony had only called her "dear" and "sweetheart" the whole night. Tucking her bag more tightly under her arm, Sara looked over her shoulder and crept to the kitchen. The exit was clear. She walked outside and considered her options. The main exit that Fat Tony had used was on the right side of the building, and the fire exit that most patrons used when stumbling out the doors in the wee hours of the morning was to her left. Sara was faced with crossing a deserted parking lot on her way to the main road. The moment she decided to wait for a large group of people to amble by so she could get lost in the crowd, she heard one of Fat Tony's henchmen holler for Mr. Pinchbeck. "Where's the skinny chick that waited on Mr. Petrosini? He wants to see her."

That Pinchbeck would rat her out was a given: she had passed him on her way into the kitchen. Sara made a break for the road, her heart pounding with every step.

"There she is!"

She sped up, sprinting down a back road. She could hear his footsteps catching up with her, could hear the smack of his fancy dress shoes against the unpaved street. He tackled her gently, knowing his boss wouldn't want her bruised and bloody before he got to her. "Mr. Petrosini would like to spend the evening with you," he said between clenched teeth while she tried her best to fight him off. He wouldn't budge, and instead clamped his hand over her mouth to prevent her from screaming. A tiny patch of his meaty palm made its way between her teeth and she bit down hard.

"Bitch!"

He hit her, and her skull hummed as loud as a freshly struck bell that she didn't realize the sound was accompanied by a gunshot until the henchman's grip slackened.

She was being lifted up from the ground before she knew it.

"Come with me."

It was the man in the white hat, only the white hat was off now, and his hairline was sweaty with exertion. He tucked the gun in the back of his waistband and began playing doctor, checking her for any injuries. "Why are you…why are you here?" she asked, out of breath.

"I told them I'd help him catch you. I used to run track in college."

"You carry a gun?"

"I borrowed one." He began surveying their surroundings. "They're going to be here soon. Where do you live?"

"I…not far from here. Six blocks west."

He located her purse on the floor where the mobster had tackled her and retrieved it. "Does anyone you work with know where you live?"

"No…no," she said, still a little bit dizzy and disorientated from the night's events. "They know I rent a room from an old lady, but they don't know where. And Mr. Pinchbeck…he hired me right off the bus, before I got a place to live, so…"

He nodded. "Let's go. There's no time to waste."

Under cover of darkness, they made their way to Sara's place, choosing to walk through peoples' back yards to avoid detection. They passed a swing set and Sara frowned, lost in the sight. She had always wanted one.

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

"I'm fine. You?"

"Fine."

She waited a few more moments before licking her lips and turning to face him. "Thank you. Thank you for…"

"It's not a problem," he said quickly, ending the conversation.

They came up to the back of the house where Sara lived. "This way," she said. "Don't worry about noise. She's half deaf," Sara explained, referring to her landlord.

He looked a bit hesitant about walking in, as if it wouldn't be proper to enter a young lady's room in the middle of the night without a chaperone. Sara took his hand and pulled him inside. "My room is upstairs," she whispered. "Are you hungry? Do you want anything to eat?"

"I'm fine."

She shook her head. "You drank club soda all night. I'll find something in the icebox for you."

She gathered the ingredients for two sandwiches -- for she was hungry herself -- and led him to her room. It was a nice little set up. Small, but her own. The twin-sized bed was covered in a soft chenille blanket, and the flower-patterned drapes matched the club chair at the far end of the room. The dresser housed what little belongings she brought with her from California: a dog-eared copy of _Moby Dick_, a silver hairbrush that was once her favorite grandmother's, and a small, framed picture of her mother when she was young.

"Please, sit down," she said softly before getting to work on assembling the sandwiches.

"Sara…" he said gravely.

She didn't bother looking up at him. "Yes?"

"We're in a very big pickle."

"I know we are." For some reason, she wasn't worried. They were most definitely on the run from the mob in a city where the police were in Fat Tony's back pocket, and she was cool as a cucumber.

For she had the man in the white hat.

Only his white hat had been lost, so now he was just the man. She needed a name.

"What's your name, doctor?"

"My name is Gilbert. Gilbert Grissom."

"Well, Dr. Grissom, we are going to need to find a way to get out of this very big pickle."

"Call me Gil."

"Here's your sandwich, Gil," she said, handing him a plate with roast beef on rye. Sara sat down on the edge of the bed with her own plate, facing him. They ate in silence.

"We have to figure out what we're going to do," he said, getting up to put his plate on the dresser. Gil began to pace the room. "We can't stay here."

"I have money," she said. "A little over two thousand."

He blinked at her.

"I've been saving for a rainy day."

"We're heading for a hurricane, Sara," he said gravely. She knew he was right. They were up against a crime racket that proved a formidable opponent for the federal government. A doctor and a waitress didn't really stand a chance.

She said nothing as she placed her plate on the nightstand. Reaching under the bed, she retrieved two bottles of Coke. Wordlessly, she handed one to him, along with the bottle opener. He gulped the sugary liquid down and then exhaled loudly.

"You never answered my question."

He looked at her, puzzled. "What question?"

"Why do you work for Fat Tony?"

Gil looked away for a moment before sighing and taking his seat in the club chair once more. "Spite."

She nearly coughed up her Coke. "Spite?"

"I…I was a doctor in Chicago -- have been for years. I loved my job. I loved the mystery of disease. I loved the thrill of diagnosing someone and curing them. I worked with my mentor, Dr. Phillip Gerard. The man's on the short list to be the next Surgeon General. He's…amazing at what he does, taught me everything I know," Gil said, his voice cold, though the words he spoke were reverential. "He's also a pill-popper, an ether addict, a drunk…you name it."

"Sounds wonderful," Sara said sarcastically.

"The mayor's daughter was rushed to the hospital a few months ago," Gil continued. "She presented with severe abdominal pain. Appendicitis. Simple appendicitis. He bungled the surgery up so bad she was in a coma for three weeks before she died." Sara gasped. "He blamed the surgery on me. I was in the morgue doing an autopsy. The whole damn hospital knew I wasn't in the OR with him, but his power, his prestige…they were scared. Threatened by him. So I got the blame. The mayor made certain I lost my medical license." He took a long breath. "I was…lost. Lost without my work. My work was my life. And one day I'm walking down the street, contemplating the wreckage that is my life, and Fat Tony collapses inside of a diner. I could hear someone yell, 'Is anybody a doctor?' and it was like I was home. I got to be a doctor again. He offered me a job as his personal physician and I accepted. I told him my story -- all about Phillip and the mayor's daughter -- and he didn't care. I thought I had met my dream boss."

"Until…"

Gil tilted his head to the side. "Until I read about Philip's murder in the papers. I couldn't believe it. I saw Fat Tony later that night, and he was grinning from ear to ear, expecting a thank you. It was then I knew what I was dealing with. I've seen him do unspeakable acts…."

Sara shuddered, imaging what she'd be going through right now with Fat Tony if Gil hadn't stepped in. "Thank you for…thank you so much, Gil," she said, feeling tears gather in her eyes.

"I couldn't let them hurt you."

She looked down at her lap, wanting to ask why he chose tonight to stand up to Fat Tony, but she kept quiet.

"We need to figure out what we're going to do. We can't stay here."

Sara sniffled and then met his gaze. "No one knows where I live."

"They'll find you. They'll find us," Gil assured her. "We can't stay in Las Vegas."

"Well…where do we go?"

"I don't know. Somewhere."

Sara furrowed her brow. "There's a railway crossing about three blocks from here, behind a row of houses."

"Are you sure?"

"The train stops there every morning at 5:30. Wakes me up without fail. We could board one of the back cars. My landlady says the 5:30 is on its way to Mexico."

Gil raised his brows. "Mexico?" He thought for a moment and then a ghost of a smile graced his face. "Do you speak Spanish?"

"Not a word."

"Me either." His grin was a little wider now.

She looked down at her lap. "So we're really going to Mexico, huh?"

"I suppose we are."

She lifted her head and watched him watch her. His hands, resting lightly on the arms of the chair, soon gripped the flowered fabric as she lifted her fingers to her neck and undid the first button of her blouse. The others soon followed, and just as she parted the silk to reveal the delicate chemise beneath, he moved, catlike, to the bed and took his place next to her.

But he didn't touch.

Not yet.

Sara slid the blouse off of her shoulders and let it plop softly onto the bed. She stood up in front of him and reached for the zipper of her skirt as she toed off her flats. In a fluid motion, the black material dropped to the floor, leaving her naked but for a flimsy slip. The glow from the moon through the large open window seemed to light up the room. She reached up to her shoulders, pulling the straps of her slip down, letting the fabric hang precariously on the gentle swell of her breasts.

He eyed her like a wolf.

She took a step closer, taking his hands in hers and lifting them to her hips. She could feel his warmth through the cool silk, his big hands a perfect fit for her body.

"Sara, no," he said, his hands dropping down to his sides on the bed. "We can't."

"Yes, we can," she whispered urgently.

"You…you had an emotional night." He turned his head, trying hard not to look at her.

"So did you," she told him softly, hiking up her slip a bit so she could straddle him on the bed. Sara sunk down on his lap. He was hard, something he tried desperately to hide from her as he pushed her hips back down towards his knees.

"Do you want me?" she asked.

"Too much."

Shaking her head, Sara got up off of his lap and stood before him once more. She yanked the straps of her slip down her body and let the garment slide to the floor. "Tell me no one more time."

He stared, transfixed. Gil's hand reached out, his fingers tracing her navel as he breathed deeply. Sara closed her eyes and sighed as she felt his fingers trail down to her juncture. Without warning, he dipped one into her, wrenching a gasp from her body.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his voice husky with arousal, as he stilled his hand.

"No."

His warm fingers explored her inner secrets, stretching her, but not painfully. With his free hand, Gil guided her to the bed, easing her down until all she could see were the shadows on the ceiling as he enjoyed her body. He kissed his way down one thigh, down to his fingers which he removed from her only to replace them with his tongue. Sara arched her back, grabbing the rungs of the headboard with her hands to anchor her body, for she would surely explode into space without a proper anchor.

His mouth was magical, and she had yet to kiss it.

After she came down, he retreated from her center and began to slowly work his way up her body. As he licked along her ribcage, he paused. Out of breath, she lifted her head, her eyes questioning him.

"When we're in Mexico, I want to make love to you outside, as the sun rises, so I can see all of you."

She nodded. "I want to see all of you, too."

"Soon," he whispered, and the closed the gap between their lips. She could taste herself on his tongue as he parted her lips and explored her mouth. Gil supported most of his weight with one elbow on the bed while his other hand wandered along her body, stopping at her breast. He cupped it in his hands, weighing the soft weight gently, his thumb sweeping past the nipple to tease. Sara wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding up against his clothed body.

He got the message.

Gil extracted himself from her embrace and began to undress. In the dim light, she could see glimpses of his sturdy body, but not enough to satisfy her. Reaching over to the nightstand, she switched on the lamp, bathing the room in a soft glow.

"Sara!" he exclaimed, keeping his voice low. "No lights. We can't risk it."

She could barely hear him. Sara was fixated on his naked form. He was beautiful. Everything about him…his golden skin, his solid form, his large member, thick and absolutely ready for her. She sat up, rolling onto her stomach and facing the foot of the bed.

"Sara, I…"

"Shh…" she whispered, bracing her hands on his hips. "Shh…" she said again, breathing onto his penis, delighting at the sight of it twitch ever so slightly. She took him into her mouth on a moan. From her awkward position, she didn't have much range of motion, but Gil didn't seem to mind. He just let out little yelps and she worked him.

"Sara…" He hissed and repeated her name. "I'm going to come, Sara."

She pulled off of him, sighing for a moment before rolling over onto her back. He walked over to the nightstand and shut the lamp off. "As nice as that was, I'd rather we make love in the dark now and live to make love another day."

"That sounds good," she smiled.

He climbed atop her, aligning their bodies before he penetrated her slightly. Gil worked his way in, eased by her fluids. He was big, and seemed mindful of this, for he kept his pace slow and gentle for the first several minutes, letting her get used to his size.

Sara found his ear with her mouth and licked his lobe. "Go faster," she whispered.

He sped up, but not too much, and applied exactly the right amount of pressure to drive her crazy. "Please, Gil," she moaned. "Finish me off."

He grunted and pulled back, separating their bodies. Gil locked his hands around each of her ankles and hoisted her legs up over his shoulders before he quickly resumed pounding into her. Sara groaned her approval loudly and then immediately locked her mouth on his shoulder. Her landlady may have been half deaf, but the woman wasn't _all _deaf.

It wasn't long before she came. Hard. Her muscles contracted fiercely around him, and his hips only pumped more furiously until he reached his own climax. "Sara," he hissed, his hot breath mingling with hers. Gil carefully extracted her legs from his shoulders and slowly brought them down to the bed. He collapsed on top of her for a moment before he rolled off of her and almost entirely off of the narrow bed.

She held onto him, pulling him back from beyond the edge so he could occupy the small space with her. He spooned his body up against hers, sweeping her hair to the side so he could kiss her nape. "We need to get ready. The train will be stopping at the railway crossing soon."

"Mmm-hmm," she yawned.

"Don't sleep, Sara," he said, heaving himself off of the bed so he could dress.

"I wish we didn't have to leave today," she said sleepily. "I wish you didn't have to get dressed, either."

He let out a chuckle and resumed his business. "Do you have a bag? Something to carry your stuff in? We can't bring everything, but if you have some things you don't want to leave behind, now's the time."

Sara got up and followed his suggestion, packing away her book, her grandmother's brush, and her mother's photo. She smiled as she placed them in her purse. When they were safe, she'd be able to tell Gil about them. She gathered up some comfortable clothes to take with her. Sara's wardrobe was thankfully not large, so there wasn't much to choose from. She located her purse and pulled out the hundred dollar bill.

"I want to give this to my landlady. She's been so nice to me."

Gil nodded.

She gathered the rest of the cash together and put it in the bag. "Should we take some food?"

"I think that would be wise."

Sara snuck down to the kitchen and gathered what she thought would travel well, knowing that the money she left Miss Gertrude would most definitely cover everything. They left right before the sun rose, choosing to wait for the train in the backyard of one of the homes that bordered the train tracks. Sara sighed as she examined the house. A family was probably snug in their beds, sleeping peacefully. They'd get up in a few hours, eat a big, healthy breakfast, and then go to church. It was a routine that Sara had never experienced, only witnessed from afar. She sighed loudly.

"What?" Gil asked, his brows drawing together.

"Nothing. I just thought I was going to put down roots here." She looked away and lowered her voice. "I haven't had much of a chance to ever do that."

He took her hand and waited until she faced him. The train could be heard far into the distance. "We'll put down roots, Sara. You and me."

She blinked at him, holding back her tears as the train rumbled up to the railroad crossing. And began to ring.

"We need to go now, Sara."

The ringing was so loud. "What?"

"We need to go!"

But the ringing wouldn't stop.

* * *

Sara pushed herself up off of her pillow and tried to take in her surroundings: her bed, her bedroom. Her apartment. And the ringing. The ringing. 

Her phone.

She made a grab towards the noise on her nightstand. "Hello?" she said into the receiver.

"Sara? You ready? I'm outside your building."

"Grissom?"

"Yeah. Remember? I said I'd pick you up for work. Your car is still at the lab."

She rubbed her eyes. "Um…yeah. Yeah."

"Did I wake you up?"

She thought about lying, but didn't think there was any point to it. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"No," she said quickly. "No. I'm sorry. I just…I'll get ready."

He was silent for a long moment. "Do you need more sleep? I can swing by and pick you up later if you need--"

"No," she interrupted. "No. I'm fine. I'll be there in a minute."

_Forget a shower_, she said to herself. Sara rushed into the bathroom and brushed her teeth at lightening speed, the bristles rubbing up against her gums so hard she was afraid she'd draw blood. She threw on some jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, pulled on a pair of boots, and quickly pulled her unwashed hair into a ponytail. Grabbing her keys and purse, Sara reached for the front door before stopping in her tracks.

"Deodorant!"

It was another sixty seconds before she appeared, not a little disheveled, in front of the immaculately groomed Dr. Gil Grissom, who was waiting patiently in his idling SUV.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

_For having a sex dream about you. _"For not being ready when you got here."

"Don't worry about it."

She thought she saw him smile as she climbed into the car, but when she took another look, his face was unreadable. "Where are we going?" she asked as she buckled up.

"Back to the Mesa Grande to meet with the owner."

* * *

The club was closed on Mondays, so Grissom and Sara found themselves waiting by the entrance with their kits in hand. It wasn't long before Mesa Grande's owner -- complete with a list of everyone who paid by credit card handy -- burst out of his Mercedes, a bundle of nerves. "What am I going to do, what am I going to do?" he muttered under his breath before going up to the two scientists. "You haven't found him yet?" 

"Mr. Cotter?"

"Yes," the man nodded as he opened the front door and ushered them inside.

"I'm Gil Grissom. This is Sara Sidle. And no, we haven't found Elvin Mandrake yet."

"I've got the next six weeks booked solid," Cotter fumed, fidgeting as he paced back and forth in front of the them. "The Gazette just reviewed Mandrake's show -- four stars. Called it 'classic Vegas.' What am I going to do?"

Grissom arched an eyebrow. "Refunds?"

Cotter's eyes shot daggers at him. Sara cleared her throat and stepped in. "Can I see the review?"

"Sure, sure," the club owner said quickly as he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. Cotter sopped up the moisture that had gathered at his brow before going behind the bar and locating a copy of the local newspaper. He handed it to Sara. "I sent a copy to get mounted on a wooden plaque. Lotta good that's gonna do me now that Mandrake took his disappearing act literally."

"Were you here the night he…that night?" Sara asked, tucking the paper under her arm.

"No, I was at Desert Palm. My daughter-in-law was in labor."

"Congratulations on the new addition." She made a mental note to call the hospital and check if a Baby Cotter had been born the night the magician vanished. "How was Elvin Mandrake -- as an employee, I mean."

"I had no problems with the guy," he said quickly. "He started out on Tuesdays, early evening. I mean, I wasn't going to give him the weekends right away. He was a nobody. But he built up a following pretty quick. The guy said he hadn't performed in, like, fifty years, but he was good. One thing, though…"

Grissom knit his brow. "What?"

"I wasn't too happy with the big table arrangement in the beginning."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he told me he wouldn't perform if the hostess sat patrons down at the big table, and I told him to forget it, the big table is _the _attraction, right?"

He pursed his lips. "So I've heard."

"Mandrake told me he'd work free so long as I didn't seat customers there. I figured it was worth it," Cotter shrugged. "And then I saw his last trick and I knew it was worth it. He always ended up at the big table with the decoys after he'd vanish on the stage."

"Decoys?"

"Yeah, the dummy customers -- fakes who sat at the big table every night he performed so it wouldn't look empty for the whole show."

"Always the same people?"

"I think so. You'd have to ask Pinchbeck."

* * *

Herman Pinchbeck lived in a nice home on a nice street. 

He was tending to his prized rose bushes when they came upon him. He greeted Grissom and Sara with some surprise. "Well, what do I owe the pleasure--"

"Tell us about the decoys, Mr. Pinchbeck."

His face fell.

Grissom continued, narrowing his eyes as he spoke. "We know that decoy customers sat at the big table every night so there'd be someone there to react to Mandrake's final trick, someone who wouldn't squeal when they saw him slip in from behind the bar."

"So you know about that, huh?"

"Mr. Cotter was kind enough to inform us," Sara told him.

"You knew Mandrake was going to disappear for good that night. That's why there were no decoys. You were the decoy. If you sat at the big table for the whole show, you could claim ignorance, say you had no part in it."

"There was no decoy that night," Pinchbeck began, turning from the bushes and into his house. He took a seat on a chair, "because the decoy died."

Grissom and Sara frowned at the old man who looked so stricken, so sad and small in the large armchair.

"Died?"

"I've known Elvin for fifty years," Pinchbeck sighed. "I met him back when he was a young magician, when he was just starting out. He wasn't very skilled, but he knew how to charm the audience. He was good at that." Pinchbeck took out a handkerchief from his pocket and started hacking into it. "Excuse me. Where was I?"

"He was charming," Sara said.

"Oh, yes, right. He could charm just about anybody. And did. Rose Stillwater was an assistant to one of the other magicians -- a green girl who had dreams of being an actress, but of course ended up with the less glamorous job of getting sawed in half. Man, the second Elvin saw Rose that was it for him. They got married, quit magic, and moved to Arizona. Elvin became an insurance salesman."

"Any children?"

"A boy who died in his infancy." Pinchbeck frowned. "They were happy, though. As far as I know. I mean, they were happy when they married."

"So…why did Elvin the insurance salesman from Arizona turn back into Mandrake the Magician from Las Vegas?" Sara asked.

"About a year ago, Rose got sick. Alzheimer's. She'd forget where she lived. Forget the friends she made in Phoenix, or how to make Elvin's favorite meal. But magic -- that one little nugget of her brain that housed her time here so many years ago -- seemed to survive the ravages of the disease. Elvin…he loved her so much, he wanted to give that back to her. He sold his house, car, everything, and brought her back here, back to where they met and fell in love. Back here, she was his sweetheart, not a scared old woman who was afraid of car alarms. She needed round-the-clock care, so he put her in one of those ritzy facilities -- you know, the kind that rich people put their parents in. I asked him if he wanted to stay here, but he said he needed to be alone. He rented that apartment and then got to work on the act, asked me to help him out with some things. He was rusty."

"But that still doesn't explain the decoys."

"Rose was the decoy. I'd sit her down at the big table every night -- she'd always be there with one of her nurses -- and she thought she was the assistant. She loved it. And Elvin loved seeing her happy."

A look of concern crossed Grissom's face. "You said the decoy was dead."

"Rose died in her sleep a about a day before Elvin's last show. I told him he didn't have to go on, that he could stop doing the shows, that people would understand…" Pinchbeck's voice trailed off, as if he were lost in his own memory. "Elvin just shook his head and told me to go sit at the big table. I was surprised that he still wanted to do the show, but I figured he wanted to keep going because the magic reminded him of her. And then he vanished. I guess it reminded him much of her a little too much."

"But how did he vanish?" Grissom asked.

"The only magician who could pull of a trick like that is the Great Chandu."

Sara looked puzzled. "The Great Chandu?"

"I've heard of him," Grissom said, turning to Sara. "He's old school. Doesn't do many shows anymore."

"He'd be the one to talk to. He was working the circuit back when Elvin was just starting out."

Grissom narrowed his eyes. "Were they rivals?"

Pinchbeck tilted his head. "In a sense. Rose Stillwater was his assistant. If you ask me, Chandu was in love with her."

"Was she in love with him?"

Pinchbeck shrugged. "Who's to say? The Great Chandu didn't believe in mixing business with pleasure. He was a fool. Where there is woman, there is magic. Ntozake Shange said that."

"Where can we find The Great Chandu?"

"He's got a magic shop he rarely opens. You might find him there. There's an apartment above the store."

Grissom pursed his lips. "Do you have a name? Address?"

"Sorry," Pinchbeck shrugged.

Grissom and Sara went to the police station to catch up with Brass and see if any of the people on the credit card list had panned out.

"So far, nothing," Brass sighed. "And I believe them, because most of them must've been ass-backwards drunk. I've seen their receipts. Any luck with Pinchbeck?"

Grissom shook his head. "No answers, but a lot more questions."

"I think Pinchbeck gave us a very big answer," Sara countered. Both men looked at her, intrigued, and she continued. "Mandrake's beloved wife just died. He threw himself into a magic fifty years after abandoning it, all for her sake. He gave up everything for her, and now she's gone. He was left with nothing. Mandrake doesn't want to be found."

Brass agreed, and then left the room to do more interviews. It was then that Grissom voiced his opinion to her. "We have to keep looking. We have to find out how he disappeared."

"But why?"

"Don't you see how rare a case like this is? One where it's all about the mystery of human interactions, the thrill of solving the unsolvable?" She squinted her eyes at him and he paused, feeling self-conscious. "What?"

"Have you…said something like to me before?"

His eyes widened. "Have I?"

"I don't know…I…oh. No. It wasn't you." Sara pressed her lips together and turned her head away.

"Who was it?"

"Oh…no one. A doctor."

"I'm a doctor."

"A medical doctor," she said, half chuckling. "Never mind. I get what you're saying. Let's go see if we can find The Great Chandu's magic shop. Maybe he can shed some light onto Mandrake's disappearance."

* * *

The doors to Chandu's House of Magic were locked, the lights dimmed. 

"I don't think he's here," Sara said.

"Pinchbeck said there was an apartment on the upper level." Grissom moved to the side door and rang the bell. There was a buzzing noise followed by the sound of the door unlocking.

The scientists pushed it open and walked into a musty-smelling hallway. They climbed the flight of stairs and came upon a single door. "This must be it," Grissom said as he lifted his fist to knock.

"Come in."

They regarded each other before pushing the door open. The room in front of them looked like Sherlock Holmes' study. Books were scattered everywhere; papers strewn artfully on tables. "Mr., uh…Chandu?"

"I am here."

Grissom and Sara followed the voice to the wingback chair that was facing the window. A slight figure stood up and then turned to face them. The Great Chandu. Clad in a tuxedo, obviously fresh from the cleaners, the magician gave off an intimidating aura. His hair was slicked back and black, despite his age. He had dark eyes, piercing eyes, and stood ramrod straight while he looked them both over.

"We're from the Crime Lab," Grissom said, his voice surprisingly uneasy.

"Here to investigate the disappearance of Elvin Mandrake, I assume."

"Yes."

"I'm surprised he's managed to evade you," Chandu said dismissively.

"I take it you don't think him much of a magician," Sara surmised.

"Amateur," Chandu scoffed.

Grissom pursed his lips. "Well, he's got all us fooled."

"A great feat, I'm sure," the man said, rolling his eyes.

"Tell us about Rose," Sara said softly.

Chandu's eyes widened. He glared at them both. "Rose?"

"Rose Mandrake. Or, rather, Rose Stillwater-Mandrake."

"What about her?"

Grissom bit his lip. "She's dead."

Chandu kept his face carefully blank. "And?"

Sara shrugged. "And nothing. We heard she was your assistant. She was also Mandrake's wife. I just thought--"

"That there'd be a connection? Hardly," Chandu spat out.

Grissom, seeing that talk of Rose would get them nowhere, switched the discussion back to Elvin Mandrake. "We have it on good authority that the only person with skill enough to do Mandrake's last trick -- disappearing into thin air on the floor of the Mesa Grande -- is you."

"And?"

"And we were hoping you could…enlighten us."

"Well," Chandu began, taking his gloves from a table and putting them on, "I'd like to, but I will be performing that very trick tonight in that very theater this evening. A magician never reveals his secrets."

They started at him, aghast. Sara was the first to speak. "You're…you're taking Mandrake's place at the Mesa Grande?"

"Why not?" Chandu said nonchalantly. "They needed a magic act. I happen to be free tonight. The audience doesn't know how lucky they are. Now, if you will excuse me…" He brushed past them and went straight to the door, which he held open in anticipation of their exit.

Grissom narrowed his eyes. "We'll talk later."

The Great Chandu bowed gallantly. "Perhaps."

They walked down the steps, into the musty hallway, out the door and onto the street. "Well…" Sara started, not sure where the rest of her sentence would go.

"He was quite the character."

"Yes," she laughed. "And no help at all."

"I don't know about that."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Grissom smiled, "he's going to be doing the same trick Mandrake did when he disappeared. We'll get to see the act firsthand."

"We will?"

"Yes," he said, still grinning. "We will."

* * *

Grissom drove Sara back to the lab so she could get her car. They sat in traffic for over half an hour, much of it spent with Grissom going over the case, supposing ways one can disappear from a room crowded with people sans trapped door, sans pulley system, sans misdirecting doves… 

Sara half-listened, half stared out the window, reliving her dream. She hoped the next time she fell asleep, it would continue. She wanted to see what would happen, if he'd stay, if they'd be happy. She wanted to see them bumble through the Spanish language as they figured out what to do in Mexico.

She wanted to see herself with Grissom, and was becoming increasingly aware that the only way that would happen was in her dreams.

"You're quiet."

"Hmm?" she asked, turning from the window to look at him.

"I said you're quiet. What are you thinking of?"

"Mexico."

"Mexico?"

"Yes," she said, hiding a smile.

"You…planning a trip there?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

He shifted in his seat.

They parted ways for the afternoon, agreeing to meet up at the Mesa Grande for The Great Chandu's ten o'clock show. Grissom headed home, his mind uneasy. He collected his mail from his mailbox, perused through the various bills and solicitations, and then dropped it all on his coffee table. His jacket was thrown on his favorite chair, his shoes lay where he toed them off.

Grissom was tired.

He hadn't slept much before shift. The novelty of a missing magician kept his mind awake and buzzing. As a little boy, magic trumped his love of science. Grissom's father would teach him little card tricks when he got home from work. They'd practice them at the dinner table while his mother gamely played audience member.

The cards and trick dice and various other paranormal paraphernalia were put away after his father died. For the magic was gone, anyway.

Pulling a coin from Sara's ear in the booth at the Mesa Grande was the first bit of magic he'd done in decades.

As he lay down to sleep, Grissom wondered why, with Sara, he still had some magic left in him.

* * *

The crowd roared their approval. They always did. 

Standing ovation after standing ovation threatened to shake the Mesa Grande from it's foundation. The Great Gilbertini watched solemnly, taking them all in as he bowed. He turned to his lovely assistant, Sara, smiled, and then bowed to her. He leotard was plum colored tonight, and velvet. Her satin cape was a deep shade of maroon that matched the handkerchief poking out of his jacket pocket.

He wondered if she had planned that.

They held hands and bowed together once more before the curtain drew closed.

"You were wonderful, Mr. Grissom," she smiled.

"Thank you, Sara."

They made their way to their respective dressing rooms. Mr. Pinchbeck, the owner, was there waiting for them. "They loved you guys! Fat Tony was at the big table. Did you see him?"

"He's hard to miss," The Great Gilbertini said under his breath.

"He told me to give you guys this bottle of champagne. Best in the house," Mr. Pinchbeck told them, presenting a green glass bottle with a gold label. He handed it to the magician, the two champagne flutes to his lovely assistant, and then turned to leave.

"Oh, Sara?"

"Yes, Mr. Pinchbeck?"

"The doctor sent flowers again. Roses. They're in your dressing room."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Pinchbeck."

The Great Gilbertini was silent as he watched his assistant frown at the champagne flutes. The doctor had been coming to their shows every night for the last six months, had been sending her flowers -- larger and larger bouquets -- for almost as long. Sara remained unresponsive and unimpressed, as far as her boss knew.

He tilted his chin up and motioned to the bottle in his hands. "Shall we?"

She smiled then, and he felt his heart swell. They entered his cluttered dressing room and he quickly made room for her to sit down. She sat, perched, on a stool, her lovely, stocking-clad legs fully on display for him. Oh, how he dreamed about those legs. They drove him wild. In her two years as his assistant, he had learned to control his reaction to her, but as she sat in his dressing room, holding out her champagne flute for him to fill, he found it hard.

He found more than one thing hard.

"The show was amazing tonight," she said.

He topped off her glass, and then his own. "Much of that has to do with you," he told her before taking a sip of the champagne. "A beautiful assistant is one of the greatest tools in a magician's arsenal."

"I'm not beautiful," she blushed.

He downed his champagne quickly. "Yes, you are. Very, very beautiful. I often wonder if the audience even sees me -- at least the men, anyway."

"Don't be silly. You are the greatest magician in the world. People come from all over to see you. The Great Gilbertini is known in all four corners of the world."

"You humble me, Sara."

She smiled and took another sip of her champagne. "You have no reason to be humble."

"Nor have you," he told her, his mind darting back to the flowers waiting for her in her dressing room. "You have many admirers."

"That's all just silly," she said, shaking her head. "They don't really know me."

"They know you are lovely. Very lovely."

"You really think so?"

He nodded, his head light, his heart heavy. "I do."

A look of wonder spread over her face. In a flash, she set her champagne down on his desk and pressed her lips against his. She was warm. Oh so warm. Her lips were soft, and she kept them locked on his in a sweet chaste kiss he felt sizzle all the way down to his toes.

Sara finally pulled away and looked at him. "Mr. Grissom? Gilbert?"

He took a step back. "Only my mother calls me Gilbert."

Her face fell. "Oh. I'm sorry. I just…"

"Sara we can't," he told her quickly.

"But…you told me I was beautiful."

"You are," he said earnestly. "It's just…we work together, Sara. And I'm old, set in my ways. You deserve someone better."

"But I want you." She closed the gap between them and kissed him hard, her arms winding their way into his hair, knocking the top hat off of his head. He kissed her back this time, letting his tongue explore her mouth as he drank in her sweetness. She was a Siren, beckoning him from the safety of his ship and into the murky, mysterious waters below.

She was the unknown.

He dislodged her arms from his body and gently pushed her away. "Sara, go home."

She didn't protest. He watched her leave his dressing room, knowing he'd broken her heart.

The next evening, their act went off without a hitch. The audience was left breathless as usual. Only The Great Gilbertini could see the stark difference in the performance. Sara's smile was brittle, not glowing. She bowed stiffly, and failed to meet his eyes when they turned and bowed to each other.

Mr. Pinchbeck was waiting backstage with another bottle of champagne from another mobster. "And the doctor sent flowers again, Sara."

"Thank you, Mr. Pinchbeck." She retreated into her dressing room without another word.

The Great Gilbertini stared at her closed door and sighed.

He escaped to his own dressing room, setting the champagne and glasses on his desk, exactly where they had rested the night before.

He had to undo the damage he'd done. He couldn't lose her, but he couldn't have her. It was too risky. He was a lifelong bachelor. She deserved more than that. She deserved more than a life traveling the country, only getting to see the different cities in the dark, never getting to stop, never getting to take a breath.

Sara deserved it all.

A knock on his door had him standing at attention. _What on Earth could Pinchbeck want now?_

"Come in."

Sara slipped into his dressing room. The Great Gilbertini sucked in a breath as he watched her close the door.

"I need to talk to you."

His palms began to sweat. "What is it, Sara?"

She met his eyes. "The doctor asked me to marry him."

He felt his heart leap into his throat as he bit back a strangled groan. "Did he?"

"If I kiss you again, will you push me away again?"

"Sara, I--"

"No," she said sharply. "Don't equivocate. I can't stay here with you like this. Tell me once and for all. If you want me, I'll stay. If you don't…I will marry the doctor."

"I don't like ultimatums, Sara."

"I don't like being led on."

"You can't threaten me like this," he said coldly. "You can't come in here and say if I won't be with you, you will go off and marry some…some _stranger_."

"That is my decision. And you've obviously made yours. Goodbye, Mr. Grissom."

She left him without another word.

For weeks, the club buzzed with gossip about Sara's wedding with the doctor. Everyone was invited. Even The Great Gilbertini. His heart nearly broke when he got the invitation in the mail. There was Sara's name, right next to the doctor's. The church where they would be married. The date. The time.

On his good days, The Great Gilbertini reminded himself that the doctor would be able to give Sara everything he couldn't give. They'd be able to have a life together that didn't include smoky nightclubs and the odd heckler. They'd raise children together. Dear God, she'd have his baby. The thought ripped his heart in two. It was on his bad days that The Great Gilbertini fumed at the thought of Sara creating a family without him. It was on those bad days that he wished he had taken her in his dressing room, right there on his desk. He should have made her his and let her suffer the consequences of her choice.

As her wedding date grew near, The Great Gilbertini grew more wired. He didn't sleep. He barely ate. His new assistant, though pretty in an obvious way, was empty-headed and barely competent. The Mesa Grande was closed the day of Sara's wedding, for the entire staff had been invited. The Great Gilbertini got up early that morning after hardly any rest, determined not to think of her, not to think of the dreams that were dying with every passing second of the clock.

But he saw her everywhere, in everything around him.

There was no escape.

No escape.

He checked the time: one hour. She'd be marrying another man in one hour.

He had to do something. Without a thought occupying his brain other than halting the impending blessed event, The Great Gilbertini rushed to the church. A few people had just started to gather in the pews. The Great Gilbertini recognized one or two from work, but was able to speedily avoided their detection, fleeing to the quarters where he suspected the bride was readying herself.

His heart pounding, he knocked on the door.

Her voice, like music to his sad, sad ears, called out from the other side. "Who is it?"

That was invitation enough. The Great Gilbertini burst in through the door. It was only after he found Sara alone that he realized he could've happened upon a throng of women preparing for the main event.

"W-what are you doing here?"

"I…"

She stood up then, clad in her white gown. He lost his voice. The dress was a shiny silk satin, long and flowing, with short sleeves owing to the climate. Had he ever noticed how delicate Sara was? She was a vision, an angel. "You're beautiful," he told her, forgetting why, at the moment, he was there. Forgetting anything but her.

"What are you doing here?" she repeated, her voice more steady than it had been a minute ago.

"I will kiss you back."

"Excuse me?"

"If you still want to kiss me, I will kiss you back."

Sara's arms went slack at her sides. "Why are you doing this now?"

"Because I love you. And because I want you to kiss me."

"Mr. Grissom, I don't--"

He swooped in and met her lips, kissing her as he had in his dressing room months earlier. He only stopped when he felt her tears wet his cheeks. "What is it, Sara?" he asked gently, taking her face in his hands.

"Please don't play games with me," she pleaded.

"No games," he told her. "I can't live without you," he explained, kissing her throat as he did so. His hands roamed her body, touching the sweet spots he had admired for two years. "I love you."

He kissed her lips again, walking her over to the little loveseat against the wall. Wordlessly, they lay down together, him atop her, and continued to kiss. He ground his erection against her center and she pulled her mouth away to gasp.

"Mr. Grissom," she sighed.

"Call me Gil, Sara."

"Gil. Gil," she said again as she pulled his mouth back to hers. He secured his hands at her hips and slowly began to pull the skirt of her dress up in waves until her long, lean legs were free to wrap around his waist.

He snaked a hand in between their bodies and touched her panty-covered core, watching her react. "Sara," he breathed. "I want you. I need to have you now."

"Yes."

"I'll be gentle."

She nodded and he got to work removing her silk panties. "Every part of you is lovely," he breathed, moving in to kiss the skin he had just uncovered. She moaned his name -- his first name -- and he pulled himself off of her, resting on his knees so he could unbuckle his pants and free his aching member. He watched her watch him, wide-eyed, as he stroked himself. "I will go slowly, darling."

She nodded and he was on top of her once more. Locking lips, he slowly made her his. "Are you okay?" he smiled down at her.

Sara answered his question by attacking his neck. He couldn't keep his pace gentle any longer, and began to speed up, causing her to meet him, beat for beat, thrust for thrust. "I love you," she moaned as she came, pulsing around him with a slick tightness that drove him mad with lust. He erupted into her, jerkily pounding his hips as he released his seed.

They collapsed, exhausted. Grissom kissed her cheek sweetly. "You are amazing."

"You are," she whispered, running her hands up his back.

He looked up at the clock on the wall. "You're supposed to get married soon. Please don't."

She smiled wickedly at him. "Well, I--"

"Sara, you have twenty minutes," said a voice from the other side of the door.

Her eyes widened. "Um…okay," she said loudly.

He sat up, tucking himself back in his pants, unsure for the first time since he kissed her. She sat up as well, picking up her panties off of the floor and slipping them back on. "We should get out of here."

Gil looked up at her, surprised, relieved. "Where…do you want to go?"

Sara smiled. "Anywhere. But we can't stay here."

"How about Mexico?"

She furrowed her brow. "Mexico? Why Mexico?"

"I don't know. I want to go there with you for some reason," he shrugged, helping her up off of the loveseat.

"Do you even speak Spanish?"

"Not a word."

She smiled. "Me either."

They snuck out of the back exit of the church and caught the first bus they came across. Gil thoughtfully held her train as she ascended the steps of the vehicle.

The bus driver eyed them. "Going to a wedding?"

Gil smiled. "I think so."

* * *

He had to stop eating spicy food before he went to bed. It always reeked havoc on his REM cycle. 

He got out of bed and took a shower, hoping to chase away the tiredness. As he let the hot spray pound against his back, Grissom sighed as he remembered his dream: taking Sara's virginity in a church as she was about to get married to another man…what would dear Dr. Freud have to say?

Still, he couldn't help but wish he was back on that bus with Sara, his arm around her as she sat by his side in her wedding gown. They would've had such a nice time together.

But he couldn't think about that. It wasn't real. Even though it felt real, even though he was sure he now had a very good idea of what her lips tasted like, and how she felt when she came, it was all just a product of his overactive brain.

He dressed, got a bite to eat, and then made his way to the Mesa Grande, where Sara was waiting. Mr. Pinchbeck ushered them to the big table and brought them free drinks.

"I guess we're the decoys tonight," she smiled, winking at him. He gave her a half smile in return, a little guilty that, mere hours ago, he had been unconsciously fantasizing about deflowering her on a couch. In a church. Grissom felt his ears turn read. She leaned closer to him, placing a hand on his upper arm. "Is it too warm in here for you?"

"No," he said quickly. "I'm fine. Fine."

"Great," she grinned. They sat back and enjoyed the show. Grissom had to give it to The Great Chandu -- he was good. Actually, he was excellent. The scientist had seen his fair share of magic tricks in his nearly fifty years as an observer, but The Great Chandu was one of the best. The audience sat, mesmerized, for over an hour. They leaned forward as The Great Chandu walked the side steps down to the floor of the club. The end was near; he was about to disappear, just as Mandrake had. Grissom and Sara eyed each other silently, as if to say, _This is it_, before turning every ounce of attention they had to the magician now navigating the tables in front of them.

He made his way closer to them, and Grissom furrowed his brow. Mandrake the Magician had disappeared less than six feet from the stage. The Great Chandu was closing in on the big table.

He stopped in front of the famed, marble masterpiece and smiled slyly at the pair of scientists. Plucking a rose from the bud vase on the table, he held it to his nose and inhaled before handing the flower to Sara.

And then with a flick of his wrist and a twirl of his cape, he was gone.

* * *

The audience, riotous with applause, thought nothing of The Great Chandu's disappearance other than the fact that it was entertaining and well-worth the price of admission. Grissom and Sara, however, turned to each other and attempted to talk above the noise in the club. "Did you see how he did it?" Sara yelled. 

"No. Not a thing. He just vanished," Grissom answered, equally loud.

"We need to go backstage."

He nodded and they got up from their table, encountering many stops and starts as they attempted to make their way to the back of the very crowded theater. "Where's Herman Pinchbeck?" Grissom asked as they finally found relative quiet behind the scenes.

"I haven't seen him since he sat us down. He must be here somewhere," Sara said, searching their surroundings for any signs of life beyond the pair of doves in the cage. "He'll be able to tell us what went on when The Great Chandu was doing his last trick."

Grissom's eyes zoned in on small white envelope resting on a lone, empty side table. "It's for us," he said as he read their names, printed so elegantly on the paper.

"Open it," Sara said softly.

He did as she asked, reading aloud so she could follow along:

_Dear Mr. Grissom and Ms. Sidle,_

_I hope you enjoyed the show. It was my last, and perhaps my best. You know about Rose Stillwater, and you are aware of my feelings for her. I loved her from the moment I set eyes on her, but, alas, I was too much a fool to be what she needed. Elvin Mandrake, though not a better magician than I, was the better man. When she developed Alzheimer's, he contacted me, asked me to help him put together an act for Rose. I could hardly say no, I loved her so myself._

_So I did just that, helping him, assisting him until the life was back in her eyes, if only until the curtain closed, because for that small period, when she smiled in wonder at him, the light was back in my life. Regret is a deadly mistress, my dear scientists. I am one of the best at what I do, but I would give it all away for the magic that Elvin has known in his life with Rose. As the saying goes, The entire sum of existence is the magic of being needed by just one other person. I shall go to my grave never fully existing. But that is my cross to bear._

_I do congratulate you on your tenacity. Many would have given up on searching for Elvin. I confess, I hoped you would. But I did not do the Las Vegas Crime Lab justice, I see. You will find Elvin Mandrake in the freshly dug grave of his wife. After he finished his last show, I met him at the funeral home holding his wife's body, gave him the necessary tonic to end his life, and then hoisted him into the pine box with his wife. Please trust it was how he wanted it to end. As Juliet killed herself upon the body of her dear Romeo, Elvin sacrificed himself to be with his dear Rose in the Afterlife._

_I must join them. For though I never knew love, perhaps I can know peace._

_Yours sincerely,_

_The Great Chandu_

_P.S. Please give the doves a good home._

Sara stood still, her eyes wide with shock. "We have to stop him. We have to find out where they're buried. Where's Mr. Pinchbeck?"

Grissom, equally in shock, shook his head, numbly placing the letter back down on the table. It was only then that he noticed the little draw was ajar. He pulled it open and gasped in alarm.

"The eye patch," Sara wheezed.

Right next to it was a contact lens case. Grissom grabbed it, opening one of the compartments. "A blue lens. His blue eye."

Sara reached in an pulled a flat, tin can out. "Shoe polish. To dye his hair."

_Herman Pinchbeck was The Great Chandu._

Her knees went slack and he supported her before she fell. "He's probably dead by now."

"I know," he nodded blankly. "But we have to check. We have to see…"

Grissom dialed Brass's number and quickly asked the man to find out where Rose Mandrake was laid to rest. The scientists waited for the detective's call in Grissom's SUV. They both jumped when the phone rang.

"St. Dominic's Cemetery. About fifteen minutes from here," Grissom told Sara, relaying the information Brass had given him. They made it there in ten.

Flashlights in hand, they rushed out of the car and into the pitch black burial ground. "Her headstone won't be up yet," Grissom reminded Sara. "Just look for freshly dug soil."

Sara shined her light in the distance and squinted her eyes. "I think we need to be focusing on another landmark."

"What's that?"

"Herman Pinchbeck." It was then that her beam found the old man's lifeless body, collapsed atop the dirt.

Grissom knelt down to feel for a pulse. "He's gone."

Procedure took over, and by the time Pinchbeck was carted away in a body back and Mandrake was dug up with his wife -- and a small framed photo of their wedding -- the sun was beginning to peak over the horizon. Grissom and Sara climbed back into his SUV, more weary than they had been in a long while.

"I feel like I shouldn't be so sad," she said at last. "This wasn't senseless murder. No one really got hurt, I suppose. It's just…"

"Sad."

"Yes," she nodded.

"I think you need a vacation, Sara."

She laughed. "This coming from the man who works more than I do."

He sighed. "No, I need one, too."

Sara turned her head, pursing her lips at him. "Really?"

"Yeah." He felt the light come into his eyes and knew, so long as he kept on looking at her, it would stay. "You wanna go to Mexico?"

THE END

**Author's Note #2: **Mandrake the Magician and Chandu the Magician were old radio magicians, I think. I got their names off the 'net. Herman Pinchbeck was a character in an episode of _The X-Files _who was also a magician. Fat Tony is, of course, a character on _The Simpsons _played by Joe Mantegna That last quote, "The entire sum of existence is the magic of being needed by just one other person," is by Vi Putnam.


End file.
